Chapter 30
LIANA
Shvathemar still glows like a jewel at night.
Nearly a hundred years since I was here last, and I am shocked at how familiar it is—the breeze, the golden glow, the feel of elven music under my skin.
Lanterns float between bridges, and music carries over the water from the upper terraces.
From a distance, it looks peaceful. Up close, the smell of smoke clings to everything, hidden beneath the perfume-sweet trees.
Mrath and I had timed our arrival perfectly with the help of Vann’s messages through the speaking stones.
A festival is underway for the royal wedding, and I am waiting in the city along with a band of Mrath’s most trusted assassins. The Faefurt, as they call themselves.
They number about two dozen in total, and they have placed themselves around different sections of the main square in the upper city.
Though dressed for the occasion, I know they are armed to the teeth, waiting for a sign that will tell us whether the work is done and Arion is dead, or if we must run.
Both Mrath and Vann should be at the ceremony. Mrath with her assassins, and Vann with the intention of removing Arlet.
Even though none of the citizens would’ve even glimpsed the marriage, with its decadent opulence, they still wear fine clothing and dance through the streets. They sing and call out blessings. While the king and his bride are mentioned, it seems like just an excuse to enjoy the day.
There is nothing enjoyable about this evening for me. A cheap glamour sits poorly over my blue skin, and I can still feel my tail, now curled around a hook in my belt beneath my gown, twitching from not being able to move freely.
Glyni Oakfeather, an elven woman I came to know very well in Enduvida, sits in a small corner tea house sipping a deep purple drink as dancers flutter by. There’s an ethereal, light quality to their lanky bodies that is pleasant to watch, but I grow tired quickly.
A pair of twins, Elanila and Farryn, smoke herbal cigarettes alongside a group of soldiers who cast leering stares at them and shout suggestive phrases over the din.
From a rooftop party across the way, I spot Ayla Daecaryn, the leader of the assassins.
She doesn’t even attempt to engage with the rioting behind her.
She’s tall—taller than most of the elves I know, and her silver-blond hair blows back in the night breeze as she watches the castle on the hill.
Her hands rest on the decorative rail, covered in vines and flowers.
For a second, our eyes catch. A restless electric current passes through the intangible bond. She nods once. I am the first to look away.
It is time for me to go to the meeting place and wait for a sign.
Frustration and anger curl up my spine. What was I thinking, agreeing to come here?
I keep my hood low as I move through the crowd, and my stomach churns. If Mrath’s plan was successful, they would’ve already raided the wedding. The king could be dead right now. And the elves celebrate as if nothing dark has ever touched their city.
They string silver banners between the towers, sing songs of victory, and raise their glasses to a king who believes himself untouchable.
A king who only sees them as numbers to exploit.
Numbers to sell to, numbers to get money from, numbers to toy with as if he and his court were some great puppeteers.
This wedding is supposed to herald some return to greatness.
I’ve spent nearly two and a half centuries wandering this land, and I don’t often feel my age.
There is a youthfulness in knowledge, despite what others believe.
But in this moment, I feel each year lump upon me until breathing becomes a true labor.
I suppose I am old—an old woman plagued by skepticism and grumpiness.
It is hard to live as long as I and not begin to see the same patterns creep up from place to place.
This is not the first time I have seen the citizens accept the words shoved into their eyes and ears and down their throats as fact instead of fiction, until they become their own thoughts and phrases.
Castien was the one to nurture this seed of bitterness inside of me and see the repeated systems.
I wonder what he would think of me being here. Is he here too?
On the one hand, what was I thinking, returning to a den of enemies?
On the other…
My hand brushes the obsidian dagger in my pocket. A cursed promise.
The crowd thickens as I reach the merchant quarter. Elves in pale silks glide past, their laughter light. My brows draw together when I see a few humans move among them—servants, mostly. Their eyes stay down.
I guess I’d known that there were humans here. I didn’t realize they were on display. Or perhaps this is a new development that comes from Arlet marrying the king, and they intend to show solidarity with the new order.
I make my way up, a little aimlessly, to the spot where one of Mrath’s contacts is meant to meet me for a debriefing. They are meant to have also attended the wedding as a guest, and I anticipate some sort of lord or lady.
Glyni has been talking about their relationship the entire journey—this man she’s working with has been able to worm his way into the good graces of the king, and his family ties put him in close proximity to the king’s consort and help ensure her safety until she can be taken by Vann.
Why I am the best for the task is still unclear, but I won’t shirk an opportunity to advocate for my people to the elves.
After so long reading crystals, lost to the mundane existence of survival, having a real mission makes me feel free. Even if my main purpose is to be a hub of communication, a source of non-elven magic that cannot be tracked.
When I reach the street with blackened houses, I keep an eye out for any signs of being followed and grasp the crystal in my pocket.
When I see the home with a singular candle lit in the window, I try the door. It opens without resistance, and I slip inside.
I push back my hood, letting whoever I meet see my face. Several troll features could not be covered with a simple skin-tone change—my wider nose and full lips—but the contact shouldn’t care, regardless.
There is a shift on one end of the room.
Then I see him.
At first, I think it’s a trick of light. A shadow that moves against the direction of the other meager candles scattered about. But then he fully materializes, and the world narrows around me.
The air leaves my lungs. His name burns through my throat before I can stop it: “Castien.”
He doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head, eyes gleaming the same cold black I remember, and steps forward.
Something clicks in me. After the visions, the thoughts, the dreams—none of them soften the blow of seeing him.
All thoughts of my mission here slip away in some foreign heat that takes hold of my body. I can’t think. Can’t process.
A part of me knew this would happen here—that if I came back, we would meet each other again. I’m supposed to get information, but right now…all I can think about is revenge.
“What have you done to your face?” he says softly.
“That’s all you have to say after all those years?” The words come out like a snarl.
He sighs, as if he’s tired. “Liana—”
That one syllable skitters down my spine like pebbles over ice.
“Don’t say my name.” The dagger is in my hand before I realize it. The obsidian edge catches the light as I cross the space between us.
My hand moves. The dagger flashes upward in a clean arc meant for his throat. He catches my wrist. The impact rattles through me, and I grit my teeth.
“Luckily, I brought back your gift. The same one you almost killed me with,” I growl.
He moves with that same impossible grace I’ve seen many times before. The two of us circle each other in the narrow room, shadows stretching long across the walls.
“You don’t want to do this,” he murmurs.
I lunge again. He steps in, turns, and catches me by the shoulders, spinning me so that my back hits his chest. The blade is still in my grip, my arm pinned in his.
“Let go,” I hiss.
He doesn’t. Instead, he moves. Slowly, almost tenderly.
It takes me a heartbeat to realize he’s dancing.
Guiding my movements like we’re back in the wooden halls of his home instead of standing in a ruin.
He hums an old song. My dagger cuts the air between us in sharp, deliberate arcs, and every time it’s about to meet flesh, he turns me away.
“You’re still beautiful when you’re furious.”
“And you’re still arrogant when you should be bleeding out,” I quip back. Then I twist out of his grip. “You crossed me once, Castien. You’ll do it again, and it will cost us both dearly.”
He grits his teeth as the shadow tightens—but instead of fighting it, he lets it consume the light around us. The candles dim to nothing. His voice comes from within the dark.
“Liana, we both know that I once helped you more than hurt you. Would I stand here if I meant to hurt you again? I came with news.”
The words scrape against the dark like sparks. “So you have been working on the inside with Arion?”
“I am one of those who play both sides,” he says simply.
“For once, do not be fluent in fabrications,” I spit. “You’ve given lies dozens of legs to stand on in the time we’ve known each other. You probably started leaving me breadcrumbs months ago just to draw me out like a fool.”
His eyes flash. “I speak—” He catches my hand as I muster enough force to attempt to stab him again. “The truth.”
I pause at the husky desperation in his voice. The way his eyes bear into mine, bouncing back and forth as if trying to find the more sympathetic of the two.